Truisms
by Antigone Rex
Summary: A misplaced bet, a broken sword, and a date night that goes all wrong: The story of why Olivier Armstrong hates Roy Mustang so. Gift!fic for Oedipus Tex.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any related characters.**

**A/N: This is a Gift!fic for Oedipus Tex, who was kind enough to write me one **_**months**_** ago. I plan to publish this story in little installments... hopefully that means there will be updates at semi-regular intervals. For those reading my other multichap: I am not sorry.**

**Oedipus happens to be an amazing author of astonishing talent. Please do check out her work and leave a review if you'd be so kind.**

**And, Oedipus, I actually **_**am**_** (part) Greek. Hee.**

-o-o-o-

There were many truisms in the Amestrian army - things so widely accepted they hardly needed mentioning. They were permanent, a part of the fabric of military culture. For example, it was a well-known fact that soldiers chosen for first watch were destined for promotion (or at least in the running). Likewise, those living in the barracks knew never steal another soldier's food unless they wanted their teeth kicked in. And finally, all cadets knew to never - _never_ - try to sneak a peek in the female officers' showers to get a glimpse of ass (lest they want something rammed up your _own_ ass).

Some were rumors passed from cadet to cadet, kept alive by whispers behind closed doors or cupped hands. Gossip was the norm among the lower ranks - a habit that added some amusement to an otherwise droll day (or at least made it tolerable). The stories ranged from ridiculous (the Fuhrer spends his Friday nights at a nefarious bar on the corner of Barker Square) to conspiratorial (Ishval was really a military cover-up for the extraterrestrials) to serious (the higher ups are cutting base pay the next quarter). Most were discounted, seen for the rumors they were. It was hard to say where they came from, after all. There was little proof.

But some - _some_ - became truisms. There were too many people who knew - too many _witnesses_ - for them to be false.

Such was the case of Olivier Armstrong's furious, implacable hatred of Roy Mustang.

-o-o-o-

"You can't," hummed Maes, lazily sifting his long fingers through spring grass made fresh with morning dew. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and their breaths puffed mistily in the chill air. "I don't believe you."

Roy sent his friend a sidelong look before stripping another ribbon from a nearby blade. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. In typical lazy fashion, he didn't bother to disagree... _yet._

"I mean, I know you grew up..." Maes paused and swallowed. "In one of _those_ places, but..."

"Mmm?"

"You can't just claim you could..." Maes propped himself up on one elbow and stared at his friend meaningfully. "With any..."

Roy shrugged, clearly aiming at nonchalance. "Believe what you want."

Maes let out an exasperated sigh and plopped to back on the grass. "I will, then. Haven't seen any evidence otherwise."

Roy sat up and shook his head, shedding droplets that sparkled red in the pinkening dawn. "Whaddaya mean? I have _plenty_ of evidence."

Maes scoffed. "Roy, with all our coursework and your alchemy, when have you had the _time_?"

"So you're saying you don't believe me." Roy crossed his arms, looking every part the boy-hero the other cadets considered him to be. For an instant, Maes could believe his friend's claim. Roy was quite the striking young man, with too-long hair that fell into eyes black and sharp as stone. But then again... he was _Roy_. Arrogant, irreverent, _ignorant_ Roy.

"Nope," Maes said, flinging his arms back to stretch out further on the grass. "I don't believe you."

A pause. Then: "Challenge accepted."

Maes craned his head to stare at his friend, agape. "What?"

"Pick out any woman. _Any_ one." Roy tossed his head, flicking his hair to one side.

"You must be joking."

"Not."

"Roy, quit being ridiculous."

"Pick one," Roy insisted. "I'll prove you wrong."

Maes squinted at his friend disbelievingly for a good minute. His eyes canted over to a small group of soldiers training in the meadow, taking advantage of the morning chill before the day's heat set in. Maes' face broke into a smirk. "What do I get if I win?"

"You won't."

"Funny," Maes said. He tapped one finger on his chin. "Floor duty for a week - no - _two_."

"Deal," Roy said, not hesitating to shake Maes' hand. His face darkened when he saw his friend's eyes alight with the type of suppressed secret that boded ill (usually for the both of them). Roy struggled to smile back confidently. "Take as much time as you need to pick the girl. I need a challenge."

Maes' smile grew into something sinister. "Already did."

"Oh?" Roy couldn't help feeling a bit... nonplussed by his friend's quick reply. "You have someone in mind?"

"Yep," Maes beamed. He raised a single finger to point at the group of soldiers training at the opposite end of the field. Roy turned to squint across the lawn. The gathering was small, not more than a dozen men crossed blades altogether, running through various drills, sparring in groups of two or three. Most were shirtless, already covered in a sheen of sweat. Only one woman stood in their midst. Unusually tall, with bleach-blonde hair that curled at the ends...

"No," whispered Roy.

"Yes," said Maes.


End file.
